


the horrors of peace

by Nabielka



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Back From Dead, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-07-15 16:12:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7229488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nabielka/pseuds/Nabielka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The late king Theomedes makes an unexpected return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Ambrose Bierce poem ‘A Year’s Casualties’.

Theomedes opened his eyes to nothingness. For the King, and before that the Prince, of Akielos there had never been such darkness, his nights enlightened always by slaves sent ahead, so that no chamber or passageway he stepped into had an elusive fathom of darkness for an enemy sword to be concealed. Perhaps, he thought, Adrastus thought him ill enough not to be appropriately served, but the boys, certainly, would see matters corrected. 

There was something uncomfortable about the bed he had slept on for years, but perhaps the fever had not passed. 

He felt stiffness in his arms, now increasingly and horrifyingly familiar, for they cried out for even the relaxed training regimen he had accepted. Moving them from an unnecessarily contorted position, he sighed again at the thought of the most recent physician come to tend to him. 

It was not a charitable thought. Kastor, after all, had gone into considerable effort in searching out specialists, in pursuing possible diagnoses with uncommon devotion to scholarly pursuits, and was ever near with words of comfort or with questions of care directed at the physician. If the man had so decreed, Theomedes would have endured significantly greater discomfort – had indeed, suffered worse indignities in the course of the treatment – even if it helped little, for the sake of bringing some relief to his devoted children. 

His arm, reaching forward, met the cold smoothness of marble, and Theomedes knew where he was.

Treason, he thought, treason, and the word was a roar in his ears like the angry waves below. For a long moment he could do nothing, his arm stretched above him, and his blood heating. Someone had dared!

The air he breathed in was musty. He choked on it, felt the disuse in his throat as though something inside was being scraped off, and coughed and coughed and coughed. That made him come to himself. There was no one to fight, and little enough energy to lose. 

He let his arm drop. He had no memory of having his own sarcophagus designed; for years there had been no need, for he was still young and strong and hearty, and then his health had been sapped from him all at once. But perhaps when Egeria had died, or later, when Hypermenestra had followed her… 

He remembered being young, remembered the joy and the laughter, and then the grief that still pricked on the edges of memory. There was a time when a tale had come from Patras, somewhere in the north, about some lord buried alive amid an outbreak, and she had kissed his temple and ordered him to have their coffins built in avoidance of this. And Theomedes had smiled and said that it was impossible, that before being laid to rest in the royal crypt, guards stood watch in honour of the deceased, their son would stand there in memory and surely she did not think he would be neglectful of his duty?

He had laughed, but he had promised. 

He let his hands stretch out, past the soft material they had laid him on to the edges of the sarcophagus. For a terrible moment, he let himself consider that he might not be in the royal crypts at all, but elsewhere, anonymous or under a false name, deprived of honour and memory in death. Oh, to have died boldly in battle like Aleron of Vere half a dozen years before, rather than this slow stripping away of dignity, that sapping of strength that tugged him in and out of consciousness. And to have spent so many years ruling to live up to the memories of his forefathers, to have regained Delpha and restored the glory and integrity of the kingdom, squashed those petty lordlings and kyroi who had so troubled his father, and to have lost even his name at the end of it all. 

Then his hand found the lever and tugged on it. He heard movement above, a grating groan, and a broad expanse. The lid of the sarcophagus had risen; his hand met only air. 

And still, that darkness. When he had stood in the crypts previously, in the early years of his reign not infrequently, seeking some solitude and the surety his predecessors always seemed to have in the chronicles, and then more sporadically to tell the boys of their history, there had been candles lit in every alcove. Now every movement was hidden. 

Perhaps he ought not have cared; the threat of assassins from the north seemed in that moment so very remote. From the darkness anything could come, at any moment some hidden watcher could thrust down with his dagger and it would be the end of it all. 

Theomedes pulled himself upright with a groan, elbow pressing upon the edge of the sarcophagus, then, with a greater effort, out of it altogether. One hand still grasping it for balance, he gulped down breath after breath of cold damp air and tried to accustom his eyes to the darkness. 

It did not quite work, for there was no opening of natural light in the chamber. But as moments passed and none appeared to cause him further harm, he felt the roar of his heart recede and realised with some surprise that he was shivering. He dragged his hand against the smooth edge of the sarcophagus, pressing down on it for the weight, and with clumsy feet made his way across until, reaching the end unexpectedly, his hand swung into empty air. 

He would have fallen; skinned perhaps his knees like a wobbling infant, and to regain his feet would have been a struggle. But his hand, lurching forward in search of a hold, hit and held some side construction in the wall, and he caught himself in time, though the muscles in his arm cried out in pain. 

His fingers brushed against wax. 

Relief flooding him, he scooped out a candle and lit it with a flint. The sparse light cast brought some relief, though the shadows cast were looming and unwelcome. Theomedes twisted his head this way and that, but though his hand shook, the shadows did not move enough to suggest a threat. Little enough assurance, that, for assassins could hide anywhere. 

He made himself take a series of deep breaths as a calming measure, familiar as the ground on which he walked, a part of army training when he had been just a boy. But, having now some light, he found that he did not need much reassurance, for even limited as it was, it lent edges of familiarity to his memory. 

He had seen the tombs under such a light before, once, long ago, when both of his parents still had time to live. He had been very young, a child still, and his cousin Zosime not much older and not much wiser, and they had come down here to talk away from the adults. And they had walked, so uncaringly, amongst the resting places of their ancestors, with such a minimal light that did not by far exceed his own. 

With small steps Theomedes made his way across the chamber.

The door when he reached it was heavy, but to his fortune not left locked. He had not known that had been a worry until the relief flooded him, for to waste away here in the darkness and the cold in only the thin ceremonial robe that had been left him, clutching to life in the hope that soon his children might venture in to assuage their grief and cling to him in unexpected joy, or else someone might come who had cause to think well of him, was abominable. They had once killed those kin to the rulers of Isthima thus, long before Queen Agar’s time: treason to lay one’s hands on one of the ruling family; but if at least not a peasant’s death, still it was not noble.

Still, it sapped at his strength, and when the sudden light blinded him, Theomedes staggered back and clutched the handle to maintain his balance. His eyes burned, he felt them flood over. He felt himself a foolish old man, weeping at being able to leave a room; he did not know if the tears came in relief or in anger. 

He rallied, and made his way down most of the corridor before it caught his eye. 

The windows were small; he had looked up at an angle to see a Veretian flag flying high above his palace.

Theomedes felt the breath leave him. 

He swayed in place. For a moment his vision went black; his head hurt. 

His feet carried him blindly along. 

He found himself turning his face to the light. 

Next to it, just slightly higher, fluttered the Akielon flag, familiar as the faces of his children. 

The relief hit him as strongly as a storm wave on the rocks below. Not ruin, then. Not Vere, arrogantly laying its claim so far from their shared border, while all across his lands his people waded in blood. 

When the king’s brother had come to surrender, the flag had not been raised, but then times had changed. And Damianos had always been tender-hearted, so strict with fairness, and no doubt such gestures would not harm negotiations, if indeed the Regent or the Prince had come. 

The notion was not expected, for partial diplomatic relations had only been re-established in the past year, but, he considered, perhaps there were unexpected problems with Patras, or even someone further away. Still, the thought of treaties with Vere was not comforting, but after the sudden fear of the moment before, Theomedes could not muster a strong antipathy. Besides, he reminded himself, he did not know how much time had passed, and certainly his sons would have had a good reason for following this course.

Perhaps, for as he recalled, his kingdom was strong, the problem lay with Vere, and was to the gain of Akielos. And he let himself imagine, briefly, his dynasty in charge of the breadth of the Ellosean coastline up to the province of Marchios, one son at one end and one at the other. Kastor would do well in Vere: he was not quite so quick or so absolute with his trust as Damen was, and besides, he could not by law rule over Akielos now. If Vere was, of course, a poorer choice, it was still a high position, and no one could ensure peace and prosperity better than brothers. 

Bolstered by this pleasant contemplation, Theomedes reached the end of the corridor. It was not far now, for just there was the entrance chamber where a corpse would lie before the vigil. Beyond that was the world of the palace, the gateway between guarded always, lest those hostile to Akielos decide to undertake the desecration of the graves of its revered leaders. 

He turned the corner, and stopped still. 

On the ceremonial marble couch lay a body. 

Theomedes felt a chill come upon him, quite beyond that of the cool atmosphere of the chamber. Though the place of rest was well lit, still he could not from this position see the body well, and the face not at all. But this was the resting place of the reigning house, and distant family he had little still surviving. 

So he knew, with that awful dead awareness of one upon whom the fates have piled on loss upon loss, that the body before him had been his son’s. 

In adulthood, the resemblance ran strong. Closely one could see the age difference still, and the features, and the hair, but from this distance he could not tell. The hair of the dead was clipped. 

His feet were stone blocks. He felt certain that were he to move, he would fall, tugged down like the statues in the inner courtyard of the taken fort of Marlas. A few steps away, his child lay dead. 

He remembered standing there for previous relations, at first for an aged grandmother he did not much recall, then with greater grief for his father, his mother, an aunt, his cousin slain putting down an insurrection, but never in a waking state with this uncertainty hanging over him. Still Theomedes stood, where he had stood before, and before him others of his house. A face like his had shed tears here; a hand like his had grasped a child’s. 

He had been king: he had sent soldiers into battle and friends into danger that meant death. He made himself step forward. 

As a boy, the man before him had laughed often and loudly, had grown into a man any in Akielos would have been pleased to call their firstborn. He would never laugh again. Even now, lying so still, his face looked dissimilar to how Theomedes remembered it: death had clothed his features in something akin to cruelty. 

His son was dead. 

He gulped. He felt like weeping, but even his throat was dry; it would come, in time. He could not quite wrap his mind around it. His son! Kastor had still held his youth, had still so much he could have done for Akielos, and the physicians had sworn they did not think it contagious… 

Trusting in this assessment, Theomedes had allowed his children so near, for it was such a comfort, and if he had doomed them for it, then indeed he would despair. But then Damianos, who had been scarcely less frequently at his bedside, did not lay stretched out next to his brother. If this did not give him relief, it was at least a comfort: a ruinous civil war between distant claimants or even fragmentation of the realm could be avoided. Certainly under such circumstances, their hold over Delpha, where proper national sentiments had not yet regained their strength, would be most fragile. 

But Damianos was well-loved and too dedicated to sink into ruinous grief at the expense of his country, even at the loss of a father and a brother both dear to him. He would have avenged Kastor’s death, if indeed treachery had made it necessary, and would play his part too in avenging what had happened to Theomedes. So it had to be, of course, justice to be done, but still here his child lay dead.

He reached out then, and allowed himself to rest his hand briefly against his son’s head, just over the hairline. The skin beneath his hand was cold. 

Soon he would return here with one son, would kiss the other as one kissed the dead in parting. He had thought in his fever that at least it was some consolation, that at least he would not now have to bury his sons as once he had buried their mothers. 

They had buried him too; he too, unless treachery had acted otherwise and kept Damen away, had lain there where Kastor did now, dead to the world. Better perhaps, to have swapped their fates, he thought, brushing a wisp of his son’s hair back. He had lived a full life, and if he did not think it fulfilled, he supposed few did, but Kastor had been still a young man, and the children of kings struggled for proud accomplishments of their own. Damianos had that one struggle at Marlas that had won them the war; Kastor, though his conduct was impeachable, had nothing of that stature: his achievements were more commonplace, expected, greatness still ahead. But it was foolish to think, child of mine, I would have died for you.

He let his hand fall, and stood there for a moment more, committing it to memory. When he returned, it would be for the last time, and not alone. 

With a heavy heart, he made his way to the heavy double doors. Outside the guards were kept always at their posts. If fortune had not deserted him, they would not be conspirators. They would hear, and wonder, and their training would triumph, and the doors would open. 

His trembling hand was raised, and he rapped on the hard door on the right, and hoped.


	2. Chapter 2

The sight of the guards was a relief. 

They responded appropriately, paying him homage, shock ceding to ingrained ritual, before granting him succour. The one on the left he recognised as one of the palace guards, Laodameia, who had been trained as part of the guard of the long-bowed Antiklea, when she had been defending with the loss of much blood her claim to the kyroiship of the Aegina, and who with the loss of her lady had come to pledge her arms to the court. 

The other, whose less-calloused hand was now held against his king’s arm, he did not know and told him so. He was Mausolos from Melissourgoi in Mellos, whose father had once won the pankration at the games. He had come last year, and had not, he said, had yet the honour of seeing any of the Exalted. 

Theomedes asked after his kingdom and after his son. He did not, after some consideration, voice the question of what had happened to turn his eldest into the cold body at his back. Something in the day-to-day reality he had stepped back into forbade it. The world was proceeding on unthinking, and he felt as though to speak would be to surrender to that dark shadow of grief he could not bear to think of. Better to wait, to ask Damianos, who at any rate would know more, and besides, would understand how the knowledge would tear at him. 

They were making their slow way up the corridor now, but this movement, though it sapped at his strength, could not make him miss the looks they exchanged.

He felt the burn of anger rush over him, and reigned it in. It was not the time to exercise his kingly prerogatives, not without a better grasp of the situation. 

He said, “Soldiers, I must know what has happened.”

“Yes, Exalted,” said Laodameia, with a short bow of the head. 

“There was some unrest, but control appears to have been regained,” Mausolos said. “Of course, being guards we would not know all, Exalted.” 

Laodameia, her mouth pursed, said, “Damianos-Exalted has been wounded, but it is said that he is recovering well.”

His son wounded…

They must have seen something terrible in his face, for they hastened to reassure him that it was not thought life-threatening, and that it had been the kyros Nikandros who had made that announcement.

“And he is still lying under the care of the physicians?”

He knew as he spoke that it must be so, else Damen would have been seen actively ruling, and his recovery would be known to be achieved. But they assured him it was indeed so, and bowed to hear his demand that he be escorted there to see him.

Earlier he had lacked strength. Now Theomedes felt that his feet were carrying him along, through the palace he knew well and did not have to think about his path, but all along his thoughts were scattered.

He was only vaguely aware as he passed of people bowing, and staring, and turning to each other in shock. His son! He had thought the kingdom stable and prosperous, and when the fevers had racked him his sons had both been well. And now to find one son lying dead and the other wounded as if to join him!

It did not seem like long at all until they reached their destination. They were neither at Damen’s door nor at the one that had for years been his own, but some other chambers not previously utilised for this purpose either by the family nor indeed dedicated for the especial use of the physicians. Still, he did not pay this much mind. 

One of the guards stationed outside the door went into the ritual supplication required at such times. The other, unknown and rather pale, looked from his companion to their entourage blankly. A hopeless provincial who knew not how to recognise any of the court by face nor attire, and appeared not to have the wits to follow his fellows, he would not last long. It was ridiculous that he was stationed so near the king, but perhaps whatever grim treason had taken Kastor had wiped out the better part of the stationed guard and the new recruits, leaving so poor a fellow in such a position. Theomedes determined to be magnanimous and pretend he did not notice. 

He said, “Open the door.”

Still the fool hesitated. “The King – ” he began, but his fellow cut him off.

“Certainly, Exalted.” And he opened the door.

The room was well-lit and spacious as befitted a king. It was empty, but from the look of it a number of people had been there a not too long ago. Perhaps Damen had been using it as a makeshift audience chamber for the select few in need of urgent audiences, unable to hold court in full in his recovery. It was what Theomedes himself had done, before his condition had reached its nadir, and it pleased him to think of his son as similarly conscientious. 

They had always been of a similar mind: not necessarily in matters of taste but certainly in ones that mattered. With a burst of affection, Theomedes realised that he was going to be able to see a little of what Damen was like as a king, and the thought warmed him. He had of necessity taken over some tasks of governing while Theomedes himself lay feverish and struggling to breathe, but Theomedes’ state had not allowed him to observe it. To see one’s child fully matured, holding the ultimate responsibility, was usually denied to monarchs, and though Theomedes struggled to envisage his son ever disappointing him, still the opportunity which had opened up before him brought him joy. 

He made his way through the antechamber and through another door, to where his son lay on the bed.

There was another with him, perched on the side of the bed, though all Theomedes could see of them was the back of a dark jacket and a head of blond hair.

His lips twitched. It was just like Damen to have a blond companion with him, even injured. 

Taking over the threshold, Theomedes saw that his son was not fully lying down, but had been propped up by a number of pillows exceeding luxury, but sometimes allowed the ailing. This was of some comfort, for he remembered well how he himself had felt so weak, slipping in and out of consciousness. He was not in so poor a state then. 

Damianos looked up, alerted perhaps by some small sound of movement, and saw him there.

The shock was clear on his face, and it took a moment before he choked out, “Father?” even as his companion was turning.

It was a man unknown to Theomedes, with fine features that shifted after a moment of looking at him, and which made him look rather cold. He stood up. 

Damen was moving to get up, with a rustle of bedsheets and an indrawn breath that turned into a wince. It made his companion turn. 

Though it was apparent from his clothing that he was not a slave, he appeared to be as attentive as one. He was back at Damen’s side in an instant. 

But that illusion did not last long. He laid his arm on Damen to arrest his movement, and Damen stilled.

Theomedes blinked. It was unthinkable to have anybody touch any member of the royal house in such a way, even more so the monarch. He himself could not recall ever having anyone do thus to him, except, in a different way, to allow rather than to prevent, Hypermenestra or Egeria, many years ago now. To be sure, in his youth an instructor might have corrected him in his training, but always still with a detached deference. This man had none. 

Worse, in the stillness of the room, he hissed something to Damen that was unmistakeably foreign, unmistakeably Veretian, and Theomedes felt himself freeze.

He recalled again the sight of the Veretian flag flying high like a mark of conquest over his castle, and felt that same chill come over him, though the room was warm. To have Veretians in any number in Ios was bad enough, to have a flag raised for diplomatic talks was an affront to the pride but nevertheless could be understood, but to have a Veretian dare to order his son to do anything, to halt him in anything, was unthinkable. 

The Veretian followed this outrage with a something longer, softer, though only the ending was audible to Theomedes, “ – tear the stitches again.” 

In this awful turmoil that had gripped him, it took Theomedes a beat to recognise it as Akielon. Somehow that made it worse. 

He had insisted his sons learn Veretian, for it had oft proven useful to know the language of the enemy. It was not surprising that the Veretians, ever looking out to betray, to infiltrate Akielos and turn everything in turmoil, had done the same. It hurt to hear his own language spoken in his own halls, in such a way, to his son, who was king. 

He missed his son’s reply, softer, but whatever it was had made the Veretian sigh. But he had not stepped away, though Damen was pulling himself further upright now. 

He was assisting him, Theomedes realised, even as his own feet carried him forward. He heard himself say, “You’re wounded.” 

It was only as he said it that he recognised the truth of it, though the guards had told him on the way. The trouble that had taken Kastor, which must have been grave indeed, had struck at Damianos too. It could not have been long after his own… displacement, for Damen had not changed much from the young son he recalled; he had not even had the time to grow a beard. It made his heart ache to think of his sons so, bereaved and distracted by it, while all around them enemies gathered. 

“Yes, Father,” said Damen, and his voice was just the same. “I’m trying to stand.”

He was wounded, and still the loyal son, the loyal heir, who would rise to give his father due homage. It could not be allowed, though he seemed to be recovering.

“No,” said Theomedes. “It is enough to have you well.”

He thought that the Veretian was a helper of some kind, perhaps an assistant to a new physician. Certainly it did not seem beyond belief that a few natives of that country might have some limited sense of honour, at least. It spoke well of him that he should put aside such practices as must have been common in his home and to seek out a more honourable existence in Akielos, where his background must always be a disadvantage. But it would grow less so in time, when he would grow accustomed to Akielon customs and keep himself within the appropriate limits of behaviour for one of his status.

Still, it seemed strange to have left him with the king, alone, but then Damen had always been soft-hearted about such things. Besides, he struggled to see clearly when it came to blonds, and this particular young man was very blond indeed. 

Damen said, “Father, I don’t understand. I – You were dead.”

The Veretian said, “The Councillors will be waiting.” He was still turned to Damen.

They were not called councillors in Akielos. Theomedes opened his mouth to say so. 

But his son only said, “Of course. I’ll see you later, then,” and made no further effort to get up himself, or to order any kyroi into his own presence. He took the Veretian’s hand in his own and pressed it.

It was a strange gesture to pass between them. Stranger still when it hit Theomedes that he had been wrong. If there were councillors waiting for him, then this man was surely a Veretian dignitary come with his flag. Clearly the matter of some weight, since it had not been left to communications with the recent Veretian ambassador. Still, perhaps Ambassador Guion had found himself the victim of one of those backstabbing plots that must ever plague the Veretian court. 

But it worried him that he was so blond, and so familiar with Damianos. 

There was no question of his good-will now, of course. In so far as it might have been possible for some common Veretian boy to have some sense of proper values, it was impossible to imagine the same applying to one of their high nobility, who dedicated their lives to plotting. 

But he was gone now, and Damen said, “Sit down here next to me,” where the Veretian had sat. Duly, Theomedes made his way forward, for even that little exercise of strength that constituted walking had become trying to him, his muscles having wasted away so while he lay motionless, locked away by treason. 

His son was as considerate as he had been during that long period when it had been Theomedes lying down and Damianos sitting by him. Then both of his sons had been ever near, as loyal to him as they were to each other. And now Kastor lay dead in the burial chambers, and Damianos lay wounded in foreign rooms. He opened his mouth to ask about it.

But he didn’t get the chance. His attention was caught, terribly, by a sight that froze him to his bones, and stole the breath from his body. 

He had ruled Akielos for many years, and was no stranger to the flash of gold. But as Damianos lifted aside the bedcovers for greater comfort, and a gold manacle caught the light, Theomedes felt a horror and shock that far exceeded the feelings he had experienced, trapped in the dark cold tomb in the catacombs. His vision swam. 

He placed a hand on the mattress by where he had sat down and shifted some of his weight onto it, anything to ground himself. 

His son enslaved… Akielos…

“Damianos,” he choked out, and found that he could say no more. But he met Damen’s gaze and saw that he understood.


	3. Chapter 3

“It’s not,” Damen said, “like that.”

Theomedes’ heart was in his throat. He could not swallow it down again, could not keep his gaze on his son’s face but down it fell to that awful brightness.

“I am a free man,” he continued, “and Akielos is safe.”

So he said, but still the gold was wrapped around his wrist, harsh and ugly. It was not the decorative gold of the pleasure slaves, polished and slim enough that it might have looked ridiculous on Damianos. It was thick and heavy, ready to hold a man to a chain, a convict’s manacle gilded for a king.

It was perverse. Theomedes made himself take a shaking breath, and then another. He reminded himself that Damianos had never given him cause for distrust. 

“Then take it off.”

“No,” said Damianos in a tone that froze his blood. Then he seemed to realise what a blow he had dealt his father and corrected himself. “Not yet anyway. It’s not that simple.”

It seemed simple enough to Theomedes. It did not befit a king to wear a slave cuff. A king of Akielos who was seen to have anything of a slave’s yielding nature would not hold the kyroi even for a season of peace and plenty. 

Perhaps he had suffered an injury to the head as well, and had briefly lost his good judgement. Perhaps Theomedes ought to be grateful to have his son even talking to him in so normal a manner. But the thought was terrible and he dismissed it. Lying here in bed, slipping in and out of fever, perhaps Damen could be excused. 

But even when Theomedes explained the matter to him simply, he still seemed unwilling to accept it.

He had discussed political matters with his son before. It was a necessary part of preparing him for his future position, but it was not only that: he had found his son’s views worthwhile to hear out. It ought not to have come as a surprise that they could disagree so heavily, but he had never before noticed so great a divide between their views. It hurt to think of him changed. 

More, the change was alarming. He told himself that he had been absent a while, that there must be some background to this situation that could have led to this, that would explain what his mind could not. But he could not rid himself of the memory of the Veretian flag flying so boldly alongside theirs, of the Veretian boy in the room when he had entered. 

“Explain it, then.” Perhaps it could still be salvaged. Perhaps, less likely, Damen’s choices, incomprehensible, could even be justified.

Damen leaned back against the headboard, his eyes still on Theomedes, and began to talk. 

He was not a good storyteller. When he had been a child, this had brought Theomedes some concern. A warrior who could not explain the tactics to his men, a king who could not put things succinctly to his council, would soon find himself in great trouble indeed. But his son had grown up, and gave orders and counsel as well as to remove all concerns, and Theomedes knew he could rest easy. But still, when it came to anything personal, all his tales would digress into another, swerve back a few incidents earlier to add more details. 

Often he had found it grated, but now he was glad of it, for his thoughts were in turmoil and becoming scarcely less so the more he listened, though in truth what Damen had told him could only be the beginning.

It was not possible. Heart and mind recoiled to hear such claims made against his son. Kastor to be sure had had a temper, had shared Damen’s, in truth, but he was no more deceitful than his brother, no less trustworthy. Theomedes had seen him grow from a soft-haired child to a man he had never regretted calling his son, and never had he been given cause to think any ill of him.

He could never have sent off any of the court into slavery in Vere, let alone his own brother. The horror of it stole his breath. It was impossible to think of it happening to Damen, it was impossible to think of the slaves of the court and contemplate his son – 

He breathed in heavily, and then again, fighting back the nausea. 

There was no benefit to dwelling on it. It could not have been Kastor, but the facts of what had befallen Damen was hardly something he could be mistaken about. The gold on his wrist spoke for itself. So it had to be dealt with. At least, Damen had said Akielos was safe, that he was free. It was over then; there remained only the question of removing it to leave the horror behind them forever. 

It was not the only thing that would have to be removed. Here his son had lain, injured, slipping in and out of fevered sleep, and they had let in a Veretian snake to pour poison in his ear. His defences had been lowered in his weakened state, so that when he was no longer ailing, he believed it still - of his own brother, whom he had trailed in boyhood around the palace like a faithful hound. 

The words slipped out of his mouth. “Kastor had nothing to do with this.”

Damianos said, “Father, he stabbed me.”

So he had, indeed, if one were being pedantic. But it was a Veretian trick, to take the truth of one’s life and twist it beyond all recognition, to warp even memories to their own ends. 

“That was an accident, as you very well know. You were not yet ready for live steel, and your brother didn’t know how much to hold back.” His tone came out sharp, overly harsh and loud in the stillness of the room. He heard this, and yet could not regret it, for Damianos could not be such a fool. 

He remembered rushing to see Damen after the accident. To look at him was to remain unaware that he had suffered any hurt, so wide had been the smile that split his face. It had been foolish of Kastor to try him with real steel, of course, but then his son was not a trained instructor, no master-at-arms he. Blinded a little by his affection for his brother, it was not so grave a misjudgement to think his skills a little more developed than they had been; certainly, there was nothing of malice about it. 

There was malice aplenty in the Veretians. Unsatisfied with their perfidy in the war for Delfeur, they had outdone themselves in their plotting here, to reach into the very heart of his kingdom, into his son’s heart. To turn brother against brother was a monstrous thing, and no less monstrous to spread such unworldly claims, that whatever had befallen Damen – which must have been terrible indeed, for his son had – his son had – 

It could have nothing to do with Kastor. 

But his son was pulling back the covers, pulling up a loose sleep-shirt also, and Theomedes found his mind drawn from that years’ old wound into the one his son nurtured in the present. Whichever of his physicians had sewn it up had done a good job, for the stitches were each small and regular, and he might perhaps have hope of it hearing well, though the place would at least not be visible. For however small each individual stitch, the overall wound they covered was colossal indeed. 

He had reached out automatically, but his son flinched at the contact. However well-healing, then, it must be new still. 

Damen said, “I meant this wound.”

It was from the front, to the abdomen. He could not be mistaken. 

Theomedes absorbed this like a man dealt a physical blow. He could not suppose the physical infliction of such a wound a greater affliction that that which it struck his mind. But still his mind rebelled against it: palace sword-masters, army generals, had had the primary training of his sons, but still he had been the one once to place a first practice sword in their hand, to clasp them on the shoulder before a fight. For those same hands to have dealt such a wrong was unthinkable. 

What had the Veretians done, to turn brother against brother thus?

That it had been the Veretians was not in doubt. Crimes were committed in Akielos too, of course, upon which it had fallen to him for so many years to sit in judgement when they were not trifling local matters, but never crimes of such great perfidy. Besides, he knew Kastor, and he knew Damianos too, knew well enough that he could have done nothing to drive Kastor into betrayal. His son was kind-hearted, and not unreasonable, and Theomedes had never for a moment seen in him anything that would have made him wonder whether he could become an unjust ruler, or a cruel one. Kastor could have met with nothing that would have assailed his honour, nothing that would have led him to suppose that it was his duty – to be bewailed, but still not to be shirked – to save his country from such a king. Kastor, who loved his brother, would not have turned against him.

But the Veretians had no loyalty, no honour. They shirked from no betrayal. It would have been little to them to forge a break between brothers, to twist the aims behind each action beyond recognition, to set their scribes to mimic a hand so well not even a childhood’s knowledge would be a shield to being fooled. 

To have led to this: his son with a cuff around his wrist, his son lying dead. 

Kastor’s skin had been so cold, cold like the stone of the crypts. But his hair, not subject to the same processes, had been soft still against his hand, like that of the living. His son was dead, and the memory of him was being tainted. 

He had felt himself chilled before, but all memory of it paled before the wave that overtook him then, as though a thick sheet of ice had covered him. Through it all, Damianos was talking, and each word of his struck deep into Theomedes as though he had taken up a knife and run him through. “I would have spared his life, but he would kill me even then, kill me and have Akielos.”

It ought not have been a shock to hear now, for indeed if Damianos had been dealt such a blow by Kastor, which he could hardly be mistaken about, he would have had no choice but to defend himself. But the heart shied away from such things. He could not look upon it as coldly as a war, as matters of state, when his sons, who had loved each other so, had been brought to this. 

Kastor had always understood his position within the family: first as a temporary heir and then as a substitute in the event of tragedy, had never resented his brother. He would never have chosen the hope of the throne over him. 

Theomedes told him this, taking care to remind him of the great love and affection his brother had always borne him, along with the many virtues he possessed, which would have made him recoil from even the contemplation of such a deed. It was a Veretian plot, complex and intricate, but as an overburdened knot could be cut through, so too could they deal with this now, though it came too late for Kastor. 

Still, if nothing could be done for him, at least the perpetrators might be exposed and brought to justice. Those who had done this to his sons had no right to walk upon the earth. 

“No,” said Damen, and his voice was soft now. “He admitted it. He told me I should have stayed a slave in Vere.”

A slave in Vere. He sucked in a breath. The words were like a cut to the heart. 

He reached out to clasp Damen’s hand, the other one. It was warm against his, very warm. It was his own that were cold. 

“It is over,” he said, patting it, and knew not which of them he sought to reassure. 

They sat like that for only a moment, before the sound of movement behind his back drew Theomedes’ attention. He turned in panic: they had learned of his revival and come to drag him again into the crypts! The traitors who had clasped his son in chains had come! 

It must have been the Veretian who had seen him and amended his plans. Certainly he must know that with Theomedes there his plots would flounder. Damianos might have mistaken blond hair for an indication of trustworthiness, but he himself was not subject to that same inclination. Still, he was not armed, he had not his strength, and Damen was in bed, with no weapon to hand either. 

But it was only one man, dressed – bizarrely – in a long gown and a ridiculous hat. He did not look dangerous.

And yet, it was clear he was Veretian. It was not a thought to relax Theomedes, who remained tense even as the man approached and bent over Damen’s bandages. Yet another one at Damen’s side as he lay wounded. 

The blond he could almost understand. It was natural for Damianos to have one at his side, though Theomedes would have expected a slave. But to have them so near, and no Akielons nearby was a frightening change: where was Nikandros, who had been his son’s closest friend? Defending Delpha from Veretians and Vaskian riders as he ought, perhaps. 

But the court at Ios had had a number of physicians engaged. He himself, lying abed as Damianos was now, had never had them far from his side. It was impossible that they should all have grown so negligent of their duty now with a new king enthroned. It did not seem possible that things could have gone so far as to have Veretians controlling who could be in attendance around the king, to have only Veretians around him. 

A slave in Vere. He called himself a free man now as though he could not see how deep the power of those snakes had extended into Ios, how much had been surrendered to them, even while he carried the mark of that surrender on his arm. 

Still, the might of Akielos was strong. They had stood united in defence of what was theirs only a few years ago. The country could yet be saved, and his son with it.


End file.
